Relearning to be present this summer

my grandson and the rain brought me back

I was getting too caught up in the noise by April. Annoyed easily. Letting disorder and delays spark anger, which doesn’t really happen for me. Social post scrolling. Email offers. Inbox crud. It seemed like every writer I know or follow was doing what I do, in the same way, but better. Oh, they were doing it with more success and joy, too. Self-talk is a bitch.

I was feeling that 2 x 4 from the universe coming—my body was sensitive to food, light, exhaustion. My head was aching, attention span waning, and eyes were just too tired to read anymore manuscript pages. My recovery time, literally my resilience, was almost non-existent.

By May, and into June I was achey, catching germs, sleeping more than usual (and really needing it) and not as jazzed by projects as I typically am. (And I have only got GREAT projects.) I was delayed delivering pages to clients, and admitting it (that is the wall for me!)

Then, I had to cancel my “gramma days” with H. I hate disappointing my kids (his parents) more than anything. And my hours with H are everything to my mental health, happiness, and sense of purpose.

So, I quit some things. I announced to clients and partners that I can no longer work on anything for spec, (read as free or almost free). Prioritizing time with H got me to clean up my calendar. But that was only step one.

Step Two was some outside time with H. I had some learning to do.

Babies aren’t born knowing about the every day natural wonders, like physics and meteorology, and whipped cream. I decided to spend my unlimited patience with H and showing him some things.

One rainy day in June I heard the raindrops clattering on the roof of the deck. It wasn’t a good day for walkies or touching leaves and flowers, so I carried him to the big chair on the deck and we sat for a long time, there in the rain, on a grey day, with a blanket.

H listened to the pitter-patter and the tup-tup-tup and his head turned quickly from side to side to find the source of the noise. He didn’t find it. He didn’t know to look up. How could he. He didn’t know about water than wasn’t his bath. He didn’t know that wet stuff he gets into with Daddy on “fish lessons” days was noisy when it landed on plastic above his head.

I didn’t know that H didn’t know about the rain.

Nor did I realize I’d forgotten how much I love water, rain, the clatter of rain drops, and the purity of putting your hand in a stream of water. I forgot that we can’t catch it.

I took H to where the water was dripping off the edge of the roof panels and he reached his hand out to catch the droplets.

Again and again he pulled one to his mouth and when nothing materialized on his tongue he stared at the palm of his opened hand. He tried and tried.

No expectation. No frustration. Just the pleasure of reaching, grasping, trying to capture and learning resilience.

That’s cool, was bliss for him.

H will never unknow water droplets, how they make a stream, or the sound of rain over his head. I got to show my miracle grandchild (did you read Loving Large?) what rain was. Just by being present with him.

…and while I was loving on him, I was reminded to take miracles less for granted, and give myself more grace when I forget to savour the rain, and other natural beauty I’m so privileged to have unfettered access to.

Be present, as a baby with the rain.

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